


The Long (and Little) Halloween

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, And that means Greg and Mycroft are exhausted, Diapers, Family Dynamics, Greg can be a bit of a bastard, Halloween, John is a Little, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sherlock is a Little, Spooky, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but in a fun way, it's fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 08:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: Greg and Mycroft finally get the boys home after a long night of gathering treats...but that still leaves the 'tricks'.





	The Long (and Little) Halloween

“My’coff?”

“Open the door, Gregory…preferably before we all freeze.”

“My’coff???”

“I’m hurryin’ as fast as I can, Mr. ‘I-have-fourteen-dozen-bloody-locks-and-a-retinal-scanner’–”

“MY’COFF?!?”

“Just a minute, darlings, then we’ll be inside,” Mycroft told the boys, then turned back to an increasingly-frustrated Greg, who was still fumbling with the keys at the front door. “That is, if Uncle Gregory can remember how the bloody keys work–” he added dryly.

“My hands are just as frozen as yours, _ love _,” Greg replied, his voice overly sweet and just this side of snippish. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, smudging his thin, meticulously penciled-on mustache across his upper lip.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh; “Nooooo, My’coff, I–!”

Greg whooped as the key finally clicked and turned in the lock, and he swung the front door open. “There we go!” he said, feeling proud of himself.

“Good, good, alright boys, inside!” Mycroft hurriedly ushered both boys inside, with Sherlock still protesting in garbled (yet indignant) words. “Before your bums freeze off!”

Jawn went in first with no problem, but Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, blocking both his brother and Greg. “My’coff!” he whinged, with his small, curly baby-bunches bouncing on either side of his head. “Le’d me as’g a que’th’tion!”

“Ask it inside, darling,” Mycroft replied in a huff of frozen breath that caught the air. Even under the powder and rouge he wore, his cheeks were chapped raw. “This dress isn’t doing big brother any favours out here.”

“It’s doing wonders for me, _ mi amor... _” Greg waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion; “Take your time, muffin.”

“...Gregory.”

“Who was it that wanted themed costumes, dearest? And trick-or-treat on the coldest night of the bloody year? Who was it that insisted that I would ‘make the most dashing Gomez--’???.”

Mycroft snorted as he tried to ‘gently’ urge Sherlock through the doorway; “Did I say ‘Gomez’?” he asked, giving Sherlock a none-too-subtle pinch (which, he highly doubt that the little blighter felt it through his tights, his dress, AND his nappy). “I must have been thinking of ‘Lurch’.”

“MY’COFF!” Sherlock shouted, and dug in the heels of his black-polished Mary-Janes. 

Mycroft brushed a tangle of long, black hair from his wig out of his face (and his mouth); “ALRIGHT, darling, alright! What is it?!”

Now that he had Mycroft’s attention, Sherlocks’ demeanor changed; he batted his long, faux-lashes and pouted his pink-tinted, glossy lips. “C’n, um, c’n me an’ Jawn–”

“Jawn and I,” Mycroft corrected, and Greg rolled his eyes as he squeezed past his boyfriend in his silky black dress (but not before copping a salacious squeeze while the boys were preoccupied), and closed the door against the brisk night air. 

Sherlock ignored him and went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted; “C’n we ha’b our can’ny now?” he asked hopefully, twirling one of his pigtails around his finger.

Mycroft sighed; he’d hoped both of the boys would be exhausted by now, after trooping through neighborhood after neighborhood and lugging admittedly successful (i.e, unexpectedly _ huge _ ) bags of candy and other ghastly goodies along with them...for the past four _ hours _.

Though, Greg and Mycroft ended up doing most of the ‘lugging’ towards the end of the night, to be honest. “Darling,” Mycroft said, trying to keep the true depth of his weariness out of his voice; “It’s so very late, and you both still need a change, and a bath--” Despite himself, even just listing everything that still needed to be done before bedtime had Mycroft feeling every relentless year of his age.

“Nooooo My’coff!” Sherlock begged, clasping his hands in front of his face. “C’n we s’day u’b??? Jus’d a y’ittle bi’d…?!”

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain that _ no _, it won’t just be ‘a little bit’, but before he could Jawn decided to chime in. “P’ease, My’coff?” he asked quietly, as opposed to Sherlock’s near hysterics. He stepped closer, and Mycroft could see the sparkle in his eyes behind the sponged-on dark circles. He took a corner of Mycroft’s sequined sleeve and gave it a small tug; “C’n we? C’n we wa’sh one mo’bie? Jus’ one? An’ then ba’ff?”

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped, and he looked to Greg for help. 

Which, thinking back, may not have been the most prudent of decisions, for Greg just shrugged back at him; “It’s a special occasion, love,” he said. “Let ‘em squeeze out the last bit of Halloween magic.”

It seems that he’d been outnumbered. “...Alright,” Mycroft said as he dragged his wig off, eliciting squeals from the little ones’ and a goofy, giant grin from his boyfriend. “ONE movie,” he said, raising his voice over the cheers and holding up one finger with a sense of finality. He then turned to Greg; “Get them settled in the sitting room,” he added. “I _ have _ to go change.” Not only was his dress not equipped for the cold weather, but the heels were starting to **kill** him, as well. 

“Right-o, I’ll take care of it,” Greg said, and added a quick kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “We’ll trade off when you come back, Morticia.” 

As Mycroft pulled off the tall, black stilettos he’d (foolishly) chosen to wear that night and ascend the stairs, Greg turned his attention away from the way the slinky fabric clung to his lover’s hips, and clapped his hands for the boys. “Right! What’re we watching tonight, lads?!”

“Some’fin sca’wy!” Sherlock grasped the hem of his black dress and twirled in excitement; they weren’t just getting to dig into their candy tonight, no, they were getting to stay up extra late! And watch a movie on top of that! In their costumes! It was everything his Little heart could have hoped for! 

“Y’ah!” Jawn agreed, and started to drag his bag of sugary-laden treats into the sitting room. “I’ds Ha’yyoween...it’s go’dda be sca’wy!” 

“Scary, huh?” Greg rubbed his chin, which further smudged the remnants of his mustache. “I dunno…”

“P’ease?!?” Sherlock was at his feet, batting his eyelashes again and tugging at his sleeve.. “P’eeeeeeaaaaase, G’eg???”

“Yeah, i’ds Ha’yyoween!!!” Jawn crowed again. 

Greg chuckled; it _ was _ cute to see them get so excited, after all. “Fair point...Big scary, or baby scary?”

“BIG SCA’WY!” both boys cheered, just as Jawn upended his entire bag of candy onto the floor in a shower of bright, shiny wrappers. A popcorn ball wrapped in cellophane dotted with grinning Jack o’ Lanterns bounced out of the pile and rolled across the floor. 

“You know you’re going to pick up every single bit of that,” Greg warned. 

Jawn settled himself on the floor in front of his candy mountain. “No’d if I ea’d i’d all firs’d.”

Greg snorted; “Good luck with that--darling you’re going to pull the sleeve completely off,” he told Sherlock, who was still tugging at Greg’s sleeve with increased efforts to get his attention. “G’eg! G’eg! G’eg! I know wha’d we c’n wa’sh--!”

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be muffin?”

“Frigh’d Nigh’d!” Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. 

“Fright Night?”

Jawn looked up and gave them a curious look; “Wha’ds Frigh’d Nigh’d?” he asked--er, mumbled, through a mouthful of chocolate. 

“Oh, God,” Greg groaned; “What is it with that movie?? You and your brother both…”

“Wha’d i’sh i’d???” Jawn asked again. 

“B’ampires!” Sherlock was positively gleeful.

“Ohhhhhh,” Jawn looked back down at his candy as he nodded, sagefully. “Tha’ds why.”

Greg sighed. He’d been hoping they’d pick something a bit more slash-ery, personally--along the lines of Jason or Freddy, maybe even a bit of good old classic ‘Halloween’ Michael Myers--but he just couldn’t find it in his heart to tell Sherlock ‘no’ and dash that excited little face of his. “...New or old, love?” he asked, with the tiniest bit of hope for--

“Wha’d ‘new’?” Sherlock repeated, staring at him blankly. 

“Yeah, the remake. It had what’s-his-face and the short Russian guy from Star Trek-”

Greg must not have been selling the new movie in quite the right way, because Sherlock’s face fell into the usual thousand-yard stare that he often saw during a slow period at the Yard. “Oh!” he said, suddenly remembering the whole reason he’d been able to talk Mycroft into watching the new version of his old fave in the first place; “--and David Tennant!”

The life suddenly sprang back into Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh, y’ah?”

“Yep. In leather trousers.”

Now Jawn’s interest had been piqued. Sherlock turned to glance at him over his shoulder, and the two locked eyes for a solid moment before Sherlock turned back to Greg; “O’gay,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “We c’n wa’sh tha’d one.”

“Good choice, lads!” At least this was one he could stomach watching...at least one more bloody time, he thought as he crossed the room to the small closet where the DVD’s were kept. 

Happy with the outcome of the evening, Sherlock tugged the bag of his own candy haul over and plopped down next to Jawn, sitting crosslegged. “Wha’d you get??” he asked, looking over his boyfriend’s stash. 

“Lo’ds of good stuff,” Jawn said, and then pushed over three small, clear bags of candies in the shape of bones and skulls. “Those is yours. I don’ like ‘em.”

“Oooo!” Sherlock snatched the bags up; Jawn was right, the candy itself was gross and chalky...but they were perfect for the tiny crime scenes he made for his dolls! “F’anks!” he said, then upended his bag. “You c’n ha’b, uuum, you c’n ha’b…” Sherlock put a finger to his lips as he looked for something Jawn would like. “Oh! Here’go!” he babbled happily, and handed over a full-sized caramel Dairy Milk. 

Greg was grinning like an idiot, having listened to the boys doing their trade-offs without so much as a scrap of bad temper between them. It was always sweet to see them getting along like that when they were both in Little headspace. After turning both the DVD player and the telly on, he looked back at them. “Right, lads,” he said as he used the remote to push ‘play’; “Greg’s gonna go get your cuppies and you’re gonna sit here and be nice, okay?”

“O’gay,” Jawn mumbled, his mouth already full of the chocolate that Sherlock had just traded him. 

“No squabbling over candy? Because if you start fighting over it, _ all _ the candy becomes mine and your brothers’,” Greg reminded them. 

“We won’d!” Sherlock insisted, his gaze already glued to the opening scene of the movie while his hands were busy unwrapping his own popcorn ball...his cellophane, however, had spiderwebs. Without tearing his eyes away from the screen, he carefully folded the small, plastic bag, and set it aside for safekeeping. 

‘_ Packrat _,’ Greg thought with a smile, and started towards the kitchen. He’d only just reached out for the lightswitch when--

“What did they pick?”

Greg jumped at the sudden voice behind him, and he whirled around to find a much cozier-looking Mycroft, tying the belt of his robe as he descended the stairs. Face still damp and reddened from scrubbing away his ghoulish make-up, he had a hint of a sparkle in his eye and a curl to the corner of his lips that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close enough. “Sorry...didn’t mean to scare you, darling,” he apologized, with a tone that didn’t quite match his words as much as it did the expression on his face. 

“Y’ah didn’t,” Greg sniffed--a weak attempt to save face, when he knew damn well it was a futile effort with Mr. See-Right-Through-You. He turned away from the smirk on Mycroft’s face and flicked on the kitchen light. “I miss the dress already.”

“It’s only gone in the closet...for now.” Mycroft followed him, still glowing from the satisfaction of a well-done scare (and from a good scrub in the shower). “What movie did the little darlings pick? Casper? Goosebumps?” he asked again. 

Greg opened a top cabinet to the left of the sink and selected two sippy cups-

“They’ll both want the Jack and Sally cups, dearest. It’s Halloween.”

-Greg returned the first two sippy cups, trading them for two more from the vast selection they’d acquired ever since the boys had made this their second home. “Uhhhhhhhhmmmmm,” he hummed, turning over the cup in his hand as if inspecting it for (non-existing) residual smudges and smears. “_ Frrr Nrrrr _…” he muttered.

Mycroft blinked. “I’m sorry, ‘Frrrr Nrrr’??”

Just then, there was a collective squeal of delight from the boys in the sitting room.

Mycroft eyed Greg suspiciously. 

Greg opened the refrigerator door and stuck his head in farther than was necessary to look for the milk. “Frigh’ Nigh’...”

“Oh, _ Gregoryyyy,” _Mycroft groaned. “Fright Night? Really???”

“ ‘ey, it was **your** little brother who insisted.” Greg finally found the conveniently hard-to-find milk and turned around to face Mycroft, using his foot to close the refrigerator door behind him. “They wanted somethin’ scary, so I put on somethin’ scary!”

“And you’re supposed to be the adult who suggests ‘Winnie the Pooh’s Heffalump Halloween’, or, or...or even ‘Hocus Pocus’, for Gods ’sake!” Mycroft folded his arms and looked towards the sitting room, frowning. “They’re both going to be up all night now, in _ our _bed.”

“As if that’s not something that happens every time they stay over,” Greg snorted, and filled each cup. “Look,” he sighed, setting the milk aside to screw the lids on both cups good and tight; “They sounded fine a second ago. A movie’s not gonna bother them all that much.”

Mycroft put a finger to his lips, and hummed. “...Maybe you’re right,” he admitted after a moment’s thought. “I suppose that particular one isn’t as scary as it used to be.”

...Oops. “It’s, ah, the new one,” Greg said, with renewed interest in the designs on the cups. 

Mycroft’s head snapped back to glare at him; “Oh, _ Christ _,” he sneered.

“It’s not that much scarier--!”

A worried-sounding call came from the other room; “G’EG??!?” 

Mycroft glared at him, his head shaking with disapproval. “Up all night,” he said again, and turned away from Greg to go join the boys in the sitting room. 

Greg sighed as he watched Mycroft leave. ‘_ Great _,’ he thought. He was never going to live it down if either Jawn or Sherlock had a nightmare because of this feck’in movie. After putting the milk away and double checking the lids on both cups, he picked them up by their respective handles and followed after his boyfriend. 

Jawn had crawled onto the couch next to Mycroft and was tucked at his side, munching away on something from his pile of treats with Mycroft’s arm around his waist. Sherlock was still on the floor, sprawled on his belly with his chin in his hands and watching the movie with wide-eyed glee. His little dress had ridden up over his backside, and even under his tights Greg could see that Myc had been right...that nappy was in desperate need of a change. 

“Here, muffin,” Greg said, handing the Sally cup to Sherlock. 

“F’an’goo,” Sherlock said, trying to aim the spout of the cup at his mouth without taking his eyes off the screen. 

“You’re very welcome...least someone has manners ‘round here,” he said, though the last half of it was muttered under his breath. He offered the Jack cup to Jawn; “Here you go, monkey.”

Jawn took the cup without a word, his eyes wide as he watched the vampire on screen pulling up the gas lines to the main characters house...and then setting them on fire. 

Mycroft gave Greg the Supreme Ultimate Form of his ‘I-Told-You-So’ Look, and then gently tugged on Jawn’s ear. “What do you say, darling?”

“Than’g you,” Jawn mumbled, still watching the movie with the same rapt attention as Sherlock.

It was Greg’s turn to smirk, as he was sure the gleam in Jawn’s eye wasn’t just the reflection from the sudden explosions on TV. He leaned over, bending close to Mycrofts' ear...close enough to smell the cinnamon-scented French soap he loved so much; “See, it’ll be alright,” he whispered, his breath warm against Mycrofts' neck.

“Mm,” Mycroft hummed...he still wasn’t quite sold. “Go shower, dear.”

“Is that your way of saying that I stink?”

“You _ do _ smell like cold sweat,” Mycroft said, and then quickly brushed his lips against Greg’s cheek as an apology. 

“Maybe I’ll just use all your fancy soaps, then,” Greg huffed, sounding more put out than he actually was. 

“Help yourself.” Mycroft sat back and laid his cheek on top of Jawns' head. “Go on, go get comfy. We’re not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Greg sniffed, turning his nose (and his terribly smudged mustache) up in the air. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

Mycroft sighed; if Gregory could put on show, so could he. “You’re _ very much _ wanted, darling,” he said with a pout, then reached out for Greg’s hand, and placed a chaste kiss on his knuckles. “Hurry back for a snuggle, my dearest.”

“I can’nah _ hear _!” Sherlock fussed without looking back at them, and Mycroft chuckled. 

Greg blushed from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes (probably), and cleared his throat. “Aw’right, be right back.”

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s back as he left the room, until he heard his footsteps treading up the stairs. He turned back to the movie that, admittedly, both boys seemed to be enjoying. “...What are you munching on down there, hm?” he asked Jawn, since he was getting a front row seat to the sounds of his vigorous chewing. 

“Gumm’ee worm’sh,” Jawn mumbled, and held up a clear, plastic bag full of overpoweringly sweet, artificial fruit-smelling candy in front of Mycroft’s nose. “Wan’d sh’ome?”

Mycroft felt his stomach flip and swallowed back a gag. “Nooooo,” he said, pushing Jawns’ hand back down. “Thank you, sweetheart, but you can keep those_ all _ to yourself.”

Jawn tilted his head back and peered up at Mycroft, confused. “You sh’ure?” 

“Never have I been more sure of anything in my entire life.” Mycroft kissed Jawns’ forehead, right between his eyes. “But if you happen to come across anything with toffee…”

“You c’n ha’b all’a mines if you s’ssssss!” Sherlock hissed, and Jawn giggled. 

Mycroft nudged the back of Sherlock’s nappy with his foot. “Brat. But I accept your offer.”

Sherlock reached back and swatted at his brothers’ ankle...or the air around it, at least. “Sssst’aaahhh’b!” he whinged. 

Mycroft chalked the attitude up to a combination of being wet and more tired than he’d ever admit, even with the extra sugar piled on. “Here, why don’t you come sit with big brother and Jawn?” he asked, patting the cushion beside him. “You can bring some of your sweeties with you.”

“I y’ike i’d dow’ here, f’an’goo,” Sherlock said, frowning at the screen so hard that his forehead creased. 

Mycroft looked up. Ah...it was the scene where the main antagonists’ friend-turned-vampire was smashing up a room full of relics. “Are you sure you don’t want to--”

“I jus’ wann’a fini’ss a mo’bie, My’coff,” Sherlock whinged...he couldn’t go five minutes without being interrupted, for pete’sakes! “P’ease--!”

The lights went off, putting a quick end to both the movie, and Sherlock’s whinging. 

The sudden onset of pitch black darkness and silence was eerie after the non-stop screaming and explosions that had been taking place just moments before, and Mycroft didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his lungs started to ache. He took a deep breath, then another, as he searched the pocket of his robe for his mobile--

‘_Damn _ ,’ he thought. Of course. The one bloody time he leaves his phone upstairs...and the lights go out. Of fucking _ course _.

A small, nervous voice called out in the dark; “...M-My’coff??” 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Mycroft said, trying to console his little brother. “It’s just the lights. I need to go--Jawn, darling, you’re cutting off the circulation in that arm--I need to go check the fusebo-OX!” He bit back a cry as he felt fingers clutching at his ankle.

“Turn’a ligh’ds ba’g on, My’coff?” Sherlock asked with a trembling voice, grasping the cuff of Mycroft’s pajama bottoms in his clenched fist. 

“Y-y’ah, ba’g on,” Jawn said, barely above a whisper. His grip on Mycroft’s arm hadn’t loosened in the slightest.

Mycroft waited while his heart dropped from his throat and returned to his chest (and resumed pumping at it’s normal speed). “Poor babies,” he tutted, reaching out until he felt Sherlock’s curly hair, then patted his head. “But I have to go--Jawn, _ please _ let go, just a little bit--I have to into the kitchen to turn them back on. And I have to check on Uncle Gregory.” He really hoped Greg was out of the shower by now...the man was accident prone on his best days, let alone when he was suddenly cast into darkness while covered in hot water and soap on a slick surface such as the shower.

“Where’sh G’eg?” Jawn whispered shakily.

“He went to take a shower, sweetheart...remember? That’s why I need to go check.” Mycroft tried to stand, and found himself anchored, both at the arm and the ankle. He sighed; “Come on, both of you. I’m not leaving your by yourselves,” he said, giving Jawn a reassuring tug. “Come with me.”

After some more gentle urging, Mycroft had Jawn clinging to one side and Sherlock on the other, hugging his arm just as tightly as Jawn had...tight enough that the elder brother could feel his heartbeat pulsing through his fingertips. They slowly shuffled their way to the bottom of the staircase, where Mycroft could only just make out the fuzzy outline of the banister in the dark. “Gregory?!” he shouted up the stairs. When there was no immediate answer, he tried again; “GREGORY, are you alright?!?!”

Still...no answer.

A quiet, stammered whisper floated up to Mycroft’s ear; “M-My’coff? Where’sh G’eg?” Sherlock asked, squeezing his arm. 

Mycroft could hear the underlying current of fear in his baby brothers’ voice...God, how could he not?! Both of the little ones were trembling like leaves.

...And maybe so was he, just a little. 

“He’s up there somewhere, darling...he must have the door closed,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as the boys. “We might have to go turn the lights back on for him, hm? Shall we go do that? Things won’t be so scary then,” he added, rubbing Jawns’ shoulder.

“M’ no’d scared,” Sherlock whispered back...just as the sound of a chair scraping the floor came from the kitchen, making him gasp. 

Both pairs of hands squeezed at his sides even tighter...so much so, that Mycroft was sure he was going to be literally covered in finger-shaped bruises by morning. 

Well. They had to go through the kitchen to get to the fuse box, anyway. And by now, Mycroft Holmes was fairly certain (and by ‘fairly certain’, he meant one hundred percent sure) that he knew exactly what was going on. He stared into the pitch black kitchen, narrowing his eyes; “Gregory,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “This is _ not _ funny!”

There was no answer. No answer, no laughing, no noise. Nothing but fuzzy darkness and the faintest outline of the counter.

“G-g’eg?” Jawn tried...only to get the same result. 

A low moan escaped from Sherlock’s lips; “I jus’ wan’ the ligh’ds back on!” he pleaded, the waver in his voice threatening tears.

He sounded so terribly sad, and afraid (they both did, poor things!), which only further stoked Mycroft’s protective instincts. “I know, sweetheart...me too,” he said. “But we have to go turn them back on...and I think we’re being bamboozled, anyway,” he added, though it was directed for the certain ‘whomever’ was waiting for them in the kitchen. He made a slow, hedging step into the dark, against the two weights at his side who were desperately trying to stay back. 

Mycroft’s foot hit the tile floor and he waited...and still, nothing. Nothing jumped out at them, nothing grabbed at them, nothing shrieked at them, no howling or moaning or groaning or clanking chains--

But it _ felt _ like there was something that wanted to, and that it was just biding its time.

Or...he was just being silly, and had gotten as spooked as the boys.

“Gregory,” he snapped. He was getting angry now, and the fact that his little brother and Jawn--yes, even **Jawn**; brave, stubborn little Jawn -- were both shaking so violently that he could hear their teeth rattling only bolstered that feeling. “I swear to God, if you scare them...I’m going to beat you with a belt!”

Again...nothing moved. It was as if the whole kitchen itself was holding its breath, waiting. 

Mycroft took a deep breath; he was being ridiculous. Gregory wouldn’t be half as stupid as this, trying to scare him and the babies. 

...Would he? They still hadn’t heard anything from upstairs either, after all. 

God, how Mycroft wished he had his fucking _ phone _.

“My’coff?” Sherlock whispered, and Mycroft realized that his little brother had been trying to get his attention for several moments. “My’coff, I don’ wan’, I, I don’ w-wan’--” Sherlock’s breath hitched, and Mycroft heard him start to cry. 

“Oh, oh _ pet _, no...sh-sh-shhh,” Mycroft shushed him, and pulled him close for a half hug. “It’s alright; there’s nothing--”

A low, threatening snarl came from the opposite corner of the kitchen, and the rest of his words died on Mycroft’s lips. 

Everything that followed all happened at once, in the span of what could only have been a few seconds but still felt an eternity to Mycroft: a low, dreadful groan rattled out of Sherlock’s throat at the sound that quickly turned into a bloodcurdling scream from both of the boys (though Jawn would later say that he hadn’t, that it had all been Sherlock, but the ringing in Mycrofts' right ear attested otherwise) as a dim, red light flashed at the opposite end of the kitchen, under lighting the head of a massive wolf with its lips pulled back in a fearsome snarl, showing off its jutting fangs.

There was another guttural, phlegmy growl but this time, the wolf’s head lunged at them and it took every bit of strength Mycroft had to keep Sherlock and Jawn from bolting from the kitchen as they screamed again and even though the room was still blacker than pitch, his entire field of vision went red…

...But not just from the light. 

“GREGORY LESTRADE, STOP IT **NOW!!!**”

The sudden transition from a state of blaringly loud, boisterous chaos to stock-still, deafening silence is always eerie...to go from a pair of overgrown toddlers screaming, struggling, and stumbling over each other in the rush to escape to gripping each other in wide-eyed, chest-heaving terror from a single shout was nothing short of awe-inspiring (and it was one of the many reasons Mycroft was so successful in politics). 

And then, the giggling started. 

Giggling that soon turned to belly laughing...from the wolf. 

Mycroft glared at it, his hands on his hips. “Take it off, **now**.” he snapped, and Jawn had the fleeting thought that Mycroft was either the bravest man in the world, or stark-raving mad. 

Well...he _ was _ mad. Just not the kind of mad that Jawn was thinking. 

“Sorry, sorry-sorry-sorry!” the wolf said, still giggling, then reached up--’_ with a human hand! _’ Sherlock noticed--and peeled away it’s face.

Jawn groaned...but not out of fear, though. No, this time, it was a sound of pure disgust. And maybe a bit of betrayal. “G’eeeeeg!” he whinged.

Sherlock, who’d long ago hidden his face in the fold of Jawns’ striped shirt, now peered out with one glassy-looking eye; “G-g’eg?” he asked, trembling.

“Yeah,” Jawn said, his voice flat. “Is’sa mas’g.”

“Y-yeah,” Greg repeated, wiping away the tears rolling down his cheeks.. His face was red, and he was wheezy from laughing, and maybe a little hoarse from trying to get the right amount of mucusy-maliciouness in his snarls. “L-look, baby,” he stammered, and held up the rubber werewolf mask. “It’s j-just, it’s j-just a m-mask!”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment...then turned his face back into Jawn’s shirt, and began to cry in earnest. 

Jawn patted his back while giving Greg a Mycroft-level case of the stink-eye.

“Aw, muffin…!” Greg began, but Mycroft quickly stopped him short; “Just turn the goddamn lights back on, Greg,” he said, going over to take his brother from Jawn.

The smile slowly left Gregs’ face; whenever Mycroft dropped the latter half of his name and shortened it to ‘Greg’, he knew he was in the shit...like, ** _the_ ** shit. “Yeah, sorry,” he said, now mirthless and somber, and went to the fuse box to flip all the breakers back on. 

Mycroft sighed, then used his foot to drag a chair away from the table and sat down. “Come here, darling, it’s alright,” he said as he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “You too, sweet boy,” he told Jawn. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Jawn sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.. “Know’ed i’d was him a’whole time.” As far as anyone else was concerned, at least. No cheap rubber pound-store mask could scare him.

“That’s because you’re so terribly clever,” Mycroft said, drawing his crying little brother into his lap. “We had a bit of a scare though, didn’t we?”

“Cause Sher’yock’s a bay’bee.”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around him and swiped at the tears trailing down his cheeks and chin, doing little but smearing them further, and laid his head on Mycroft’s shoulders while his big brother rubbed his back. “No’m no’d,” he sniffled. “I, I jus’ ha’de--” a hiccup bubbled out of his throat, followed by a cough; “Jus’ h-ha’de stu'bid m-mas’gs.”

“So do I,” Mycroft tutted. “Especially the scary ones.”

Jawn stuck out his chest, made brave by the fact that he was biggerer than Sherlock tonight, cause Sherlock was the bay’bee, and Jawn had to be brave enough for both of’em; “Didn’ sca’we me,” he said...then jumped almost clean out of his shorts when screaming and crashing blared from the sitting room as the electricity kicked back on and started their movie up from where it had left off. 

Greg flicked the light switch on the other side of the room, flooding the kitchen with fluorescence without warning and nearly blinding all of them in the process. “Sorry,” he said, hand at his forehead to shield some of the light. “So...that was a good one, yeah?” He gave them a weak smile, and an even weaker laugh. “Bein’ Halloween and everthin’...you gotta have one little scare, right?? S’all part of the fun!!”

Mycroft stared (or squinted, as his eyes hadn’t adjusted quite yet) at him flatly, Jawn glared, and Sherlock…

Well, Sherlock was still sniffling into the crook of his brothers’ neck. 

“Sure..._ fun _,” Mycroft drawled at last, his gaze never leaving Greg. “I think we’ve overextended our allotment of ‘fun’ for the evening; I think it’s time for a nice bath and bedtime.”

Jawn’s brow furrowed, and he cast a worried glance at Mycroft. 

“--In the big bed, dear. With us.”

Jawn visibly relaxed. 

Sherlock sat up. “Bu’d, bu’d I, I w-wa’n fini’ss a mo’bie, My’coff!” he pleaded. 

Greg stood by and awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot. Well, _ shit _ ...this had gone over about as well as a root canal. “Didn’t think it was that bad,” he muttered--they’d been asking for a scare, in fact...quite literally! That’s the main reason Sherlock loved Halloween so much! ‘ _ But, they’re babies _ ,’ he immediately thought to himself, mid-rant. ‘ _ Maybe knocking the lights out was a bit much _.’

“We’ll finish it tomorrow, sweetheart. Everyone’s had their fill of being ‘scared’.” Mycroft patted Sherlock’s bottom. “Up you get.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip poked out, but he obediently stood and let his brother up. “Bu’d, our can’ny,” he said in quite possibly the saddest voice that Greg or Mycroft had heard so far during the entire course of their babysitting career. 

“Your candy isn’t going anywhere, baby. Gregory will scoop it up and you’ll still have piles and piles of it tomorrow.”

“I c’n do i’d!” Jawn started to dart back into the sitting room, but Mycroft caught his elbow. “No,” Mycroft said firmly. “_ Gregory _ will. You and Sherlock are going up for a bath. Here,” he added, and gave Sherlock a nudge in Jawn’s direction; “Go ahead and go upstairs; I need a moment with our Greg.”

The sound of his shortened name coming from Mycroft’s mouth once had been bad enough, but twice? In one night? 

...Shit. 

He watched as Mycroft bent his head and whispered to both boys, then kissed them each on the cheek and sent them off with Jawn tugging Sherlock by the hand. 

“Be careful on the steps,” Mycroft reminded them...and then turned his attention to Greg. He waited, finger to his lips, eyes narrowed. Just like his brother. 

Greg swallowed thickly. 

Mycroft stared at him for what felt like ages...okay, it was maybe five, six minutes at the most, but when even thirty seconds of total silence feels like forever, then five or six minutes of intense scrutiny could easily feel like a lifetime. 

Double lifetime, when your skin’s pricklin’ from being stared at. 

It was obvious that Mycroft was waiting for him to be the first to speak, though. And Greg...well, he just didn’t want to. Because nothing that he could think of sounded smart enough. But, finally, he sighed and settled on a simple, “I’m sorry, Myc.”

A faint smile appeared behind his finger, but it didn’t make Greg feel any better for it. “Mm-hmm, Mm-hmm,” Mycroft hummed, and moved his hand to cup his chin. “You’ve said that. But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Of course I’m gonna tell them--!”

“Later,” Mycroft interrupted. “I’m tired. The boys are tired. And they still need to be bathed and changed for bed,” he added. “Oh, and they’ll need to be convinced that nothing else is going to jump out and scare them shitless again.”

Greg winced...he wasn’t being yelled at, and Mycroft was still smiling, but the implication behind the words was still sharp. “I can come help,” he offered weakly. He’d been planning on it, anyway. “I can get them washed and dressed; you don’t need to--”

“You can help by doing as I said, and clean up the sitting room. There’s candy everywhere, and I’m fairly sure that Jawn flung an open bag of gummy worms when the lights went out.” Mycroft turned and started to leave the room, meaning the conversation was done and that was that...for now. 

But when he reached the doorway, Mycroft stopped and looked over his shoulder; “Oh, and bring their sippy cups up with you when you’re done,” he said, and then left.

‘_So, that wasn’t as bad as it could have been, all things considered _,’ Greg thought. He didn’t think Mycroft was done...oh no, he would be a fool, with the jingly-belled hat and everything, if he thought it was over. No, this was a ‘to-be-continued’ argument, and those are the ones that he hates the most. He rubbed his face with his hands, held them there for a moment, and then sighed before walking into the sitting room and turning on the light. 

“Oh, Christ.”

The movie had finally ended, and had gone back to the DVD menu with the music repeating on a loop. And Mycroft was right, of course...loose gummy worms scattered the floor, with the mostly-empty bag sitting next to a--

Greg stopped. What. the. f u c k.

The bag was sitting next to a _ massive _ pile of candy. 

Greg groaned and walked up to the pile, which had mysteriously expanded in the time that he’d sneaked back downstairs and hidden; Jawn and Sherlock must have shoved all their candy together. And now that he was seeing it all in one place, he realized that he had _ vastly _ underestimated just how much they’d collected earlier, because the bloody thing was tall enough to reach his waist and wide enough to hide a body…

‘_That’s a really weird thought to have _,’ Greg thought...before emitting a blood-curdling scream as a hand burst through in a shower of candy and grabbed his shirt, balling it into a fist. 

He stumbled back, his foot sliding on the candy that had fallen and landing him square on his ass. The fist, refusing to lose its grip on him, followed with him and then...and then, Greg was staring up into Jawns’ face as he loomed over him, grinning wickedly. 

Greg stared back at him, chest heaving, heart pounding in his ears, wondering whether ‘little shit’ was the appropriate terminology to convey just how close the little bastard (wait, that might be a better one!) was to getting his little neck wrung when Greg finally heard the laughing. 

He tilted his head back and there, out in the hallway, were Mycroft and Sherlock sat at the top of the stairs. Mycroft was holding his belly, eyes squinched shut and covering his mouth to stifle the donkey braying that he calls a laugh. And Sherlock was just as bad, sitting on the step next to his brother, rocking back and forth in an effort not to piss himself (anymore) and shaking just as hard as he had earlier, but this time it was at Greg’s expense, not his. 

“Alright, alright...everyone get their three chuckles in, go on,” he grumbled as he sat up.

Jawn, showing off an amazing sense of self-preservation, hopped just out of reach and trotted back up the stairs. “I bringed extra!” he whooped, and pattes at his bulging pockets victoriously. 

“G-good boy,” Mycroft chortled, then coughed. “Everyone’s had their ‘good scare’ for the night then, yes?!”

Greg knew who that was directed at. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, brushing candy out of the folds in his clothes and shoving it back towards the pile with his foot. “Means we’re all even, yeah?!” he asked back. 

“Mm, finish cleaning up down there first, and then we’ll talk.” Mycroft stood up and ushered both boys to the top of the stairs. “Maybe you can join us for storytime.”

Greg looked down at his feet, taking in the absolute mess that had occured when Jawn ‘exploded’ at him...candy was strewn _ everywhere _, to all four corners of the room! “Oh, c’mon!” he whinged. “You got me back already!” 

“You a’served i’d!” Jawn shouted back. “Y’ah,” Sherlock agreed, his face appearing over the banister. “You a’serb’ed i’d, G’eg!”

“Shush, that’s enough...even if it _ is _ true,” Mycroft told them, and swatted at their backsides. “Bathroom, now. And Gregory?” 

Greg was glaring at the mess while wondering if getting the broom from the closet would help, or if that was just a thing they did in cartoons. “Yeah?” 

“Don’t forget their cups. Oh, and Gregory???” 

Greg looked up just in time to see Mycroft blow a kiss in his direction; “Happy Halloween, dearest,” he said, grinning like the cat that ate the canary before following the boys down the hallway to the master bedroom. 

Greg frowned. “Happy-feckin’-Halloween to my arsehole,” he huffed, and headed for the broom closet. 

~*~


End file.
